Soldier
by AlwaysThatGuy
Summary: Everybody knows that Harry Potter died seven years ago during the Second War with Voldemort. When he died, he took a little bit of Hermione with him too. When he died, James Evans was born. A man who has no memory of who he was. A man who is about to discover that there are some people in the world who will not let him go.
1. Prologue

As it descended towards the earth, the helicopter was the only thing that any of them heard. James's eyes fixated upon the distant black vehicle as it made contact with the desert sand.

Before a helicopter descends, it flairs upwards, the push of the rotor blades bringing the helicopter to a more controlled speed. It then descends to the earth until all three of its wheels touch the ground at almost the same time. The rear wheel touches slightly before the two at the front.

This landing was nothing like that.

It made a deafening crumping noise as the front side of the airframe made a rapid collision with the earth, before rolling onto its sides. The rotor blades then snapped as they moved at full speed into the earth, splintering about the field and one nearly taking James's head clean off his shoulders.

He rose from the earth just as the world resumed, as if the interlude of the crashing Black Hawk had never occurred, as if it had just been red light on a busy street. A round whizzed by his ear, mere centre metres from ruining his day. Another moved past his legs. He could feel the disruption of the air they made as they passed his body. He could hear the pounding in his ears as adrenaline reached his heart and was pumped around the body.

Nearby, somebody yelled. It was indistinct amongst the thunder of gunfire.

A machine gun fired a long burst, probably just Giles trying to gain fire superiority. A flash of fire, then a billow of smoke informed him that someone had fired a grenade. He paid it no mind. He paid none of it any mind. In fact, the only thing that did cross his mind was each foot as it made contact with the ground, and the helicopter he needed to reach.

The helicopter that was billowing smoke.

The helicopter that was being descended upon by a small swarm of angry men.

A helicopter that he had to reach under any circumstances.

He saw briefly as one of the men's chest exploded in a spray of blood. Saw his voiceless scream and watched him drop from view. All evidence pointed towards Flats. The man was a god with a gun. He could shoot the fleas of a dogs arse at this range with that rifle of his.

Another man dropped.

Yeah. Definitely Flats.

A round passed his vision. It happened so quick he nearly missed it. He could almost smell the acrid stench of cordite as it flashed in front of his eyes, see the smooth rounded top. James that the weapons of the enemy had a vastly superior range to the weapons he used. It was damned unfair.

It was only about three hundred metres, but it felt like a mile. He passed the half-way point before the first man even bothered to look up from the helicopter and see him. James's bottle green eyes met the cold grey eyes of the angry man. James watched as the angry man opened his mouth and shouted before grabbing for the weapon he had slung over his back.

He pulled it to his hip.

And he fired.

Dust kicked up all around James boots and into his eyes. He threw a gloved hand up to protect his face as he moved forwards, ever closer to the broken airframe.

Fuck.

He said it under his breath, and in the cacophony, not even he could hear it. James seldom swore. A rarity in his profession.

It sounded like a swarm of angry, lethal, metal wasps were all around him. He couldn't believe that every round missed him. More rifles joined the first man.

That beautiful, beautiful sound of the machine gun occurred again.

And for a moment, James was almost at peace. He pulled his hand away from his face, barely noticing the blood dripping down his forearm. It was a later problem.

Those dust clouds that had previous irked him, now bothered the angry men at the helicopter. He saw two go down hard. A few of the others leapt to cover. One man stood in the opening, trying to fit another magazine into his rifle. He was probably high on the opiates that grew freely in this country.

He was no more than twenty five metres from the helicopter now.

And that beautiful sound. That Mozart of combat ceased. He had reached his cut off point, if Giles kept firing, he would risk hitting James. No more support was coming.

The last twenty five metres he must have set a new record, even in full combat load and boots.

The angry man finally fitted the magazine into his weapon. His hand moved smoothly to the cocking handle. It pulled back, chambering a round into his rifle.

He looked up, pulling his rifle up with his head.

The butt of James's rifle slammed into the bridge of the man's nose, sending him flying into the fuselage of the downed bird. His head cracked into the windshield and he slid down the nose of the bird.

James saw him slowly shake his head side to side, trying to clear his vision from the blood and tears that had become his face.

James never gave him the chance.

He barely felt the recoil as the man's head snapped back, and his brains adorned the helicopter and the sand.

Crouched against the nose of the helicopter, with dead bodies all around him, and the voices of his enemies coming from just the other side of the sandbank made by the crash, James thought that his lot had improved in life.

"Really, Ev? Really?" The voice cackled in his ear. Ever since he had transferred into the British Army, the Aussie had been given the radio. He just could not shut up. James had always figured that if he was going to talk, he might as well talk to Headquarters. Warby hated most of the officers back at HQ, so naturally he shut up to them and just talked to his team instead. It made the tedium easier.

He just shrugged. Even though he knewWarby couldn't see it.

"How long did you say until ground support rocks up?"

"I didn't. Apparently we have lucked out though. There's a fucking convoy in the area. And we are going to give them the best war story to tell their kids. The time they saved a bunch of-"

"How long Nate?" James sometimes had to cut him off. He seldom minded though.

"20 Mikes before you decided to do a Banzai on us."

"Ok, well how long now?" James gave a quick glance into the cockpit. The co-pilot had taken the worst of the crash and was slumped in his seat. His body was a mess of pulp and blood held together by a bit of flight suit, gravity and harness. The pilot's seat was empty.

"About 20 mikes. How long did you think you ran for?"

"No idea, but somehow I'm beginning to think that mistakes may have been made." Their easy banter was what made the team work. It helped them to think clearly, despite the stress that should have been flooding their minds.

"By you maybe. What are you going to do genius?"

James wiped the sweat from his brow as he thought, half obscuring the scar that adorned his forehead with dust in the process. Suddenly, he had an idea.

"I haven't really thought that far ahead. Probably something reckless."

"Wouldn't have you any other way Ev."

James slowly moved away from the front of the helicopter. The enemies on the other side of the helicopter seemed to be recovering from the shock of having a British soldier charge them across three hundred metres of open ground. He could hear one of them barking orders in their foreign tongue. Not that he understood exactly what was said, but he could tell by the rhythm and tone that someone was reorganising. That was bad.

He turned around and trained his rifle on the rear of the helicopter. Slowly he placed one boot in front of the other as he moved towards the tail. He peaked around and saw that the tail of the helicopter was in the sand.

There goes that plan.

His hand reached for a grenade, but he quickly dismissed it. If they had captured any of the crew, he didn't want to risk injuring them. What he did have was a flashbang.

He pulled it out of his webbing and removed the pin. Quickly he moved back towards the front of the bird and dropped it over the nose.

He then scurried to the rear of the bird and waited.

3.

4.

There was a reason they were called flashbangs. The bang was deafening. It was also, helpfully, his signal.

He leapt over the tail of the helicopter and landed on one knee on the other side.

Six.

There were six of them.

It was automatic, mathematic, smooth. His rifle raised to the nearest man, an older man with a beard as white as Father Christmas. The round pierced the side of his skull as he shook his head trying to clear his vision and stop his ears from ringing. The beard rapidly turned red as he slumped to the ground. James was already onto his next target. Four middle aged men with deep black beards and heads of full curly hair.

Two.

A slight angle right.

Three.

Up a knuckle, right two.

Four.

Down three knuckles, Across five.

Five.

The sixth. A boy. Probably around about twelve. James hesitated. James seldom hesitated. In combat, hesitation can get you killed, or worse, someone else killed. But at that moment he did. His finger slackened on the trigger.

The boy was holding his ear. James saw he was lying very close to where the flashbang would have landed. He probably had perforated eardrums from the noise of it echoing of the underbelly of the metal helicopter.

The boys eyes went wide as he stared at the barrel of the M4 staring right at his face. He paused.

James green eyes met the boys brown.

The boy looks scared.

Terrified actually, of the man who appeared before him. In that brief second, James saw a younger version of himself, cowering away from a monster trying to kill him. He threw that thought away. James had no younger self, none that he remembered anyway.

He saw the reflection of what he was now in the boys eyes as they stared at each other. There was no part of James that must have looked human, from helmet to boot. Everything he wore was either for protection or for killing. The boy wore thongs on his thick dark feet. His body was covered in the white 'pajamas' of his people. A small brown vest his only decoration, with the exception of the canvas combat webbing that he wore across his belly. On top of his head he wore a small muslim prayer cap.

It was probably no more than the blink of an eye. Time plays funny in combat.

The boy raised the small pistol that he held in his hand.

James put a small hole in his right eye. He watched his brains shoot from the back of his skull and redecorate the sand behind him.

Fuck.

A breath.

One more.

Ok, one more.

He put it to the back of his mind.

"You better not be dead, you fucking idiot."Warby's voice had never been a more welcome distraction.

"I'm alive."

He took stock. Laying on the ground about him where the six dead enemy combatants. Curled up against the bird were two additional men. They wore the green drab of flight crew and had their hands around their heads, which were encapsulated by large flight helmets.

He vaulted over to them and shook the nearest one.

"You boys ok?" He yelled over the din of distant gunfire that echoed across the grounds. IT only just registered that the battle was ongoing, not that he had forgotten.

The first one looked up at him. Relief swallowed his features and grabbed James in a crushing hug.

"Alright mate…" He awkwardly, patted the burly man's back. "Get off now."

He gently eased him off.

"Tell me that Callsign Crown is not the man still in there." He said to the two.

Silence greeted his remark.

He gently shook the two men.

"Callsign Crown. What is his status?"

James was starting to get frustrated. There was a time for this sort of behaviour, but now was not it.

"Where the hell is the Prince?" This time his yell was as much for anger as need.

"I'm here."

A man in green drab vaulted from the inside of the helicopter and landed with a thud next to him. He was a taller man, wearing a flight helmet and brown, camouflage coloured Kevlar. He had goggles over his eyes to protect them from the dust.

"Callsign Crown, at your service." He had the classic speech patterns of one so trained for formal occasions. The private schoolboy, many of the other men would call his ilk. In actuality he was the heir to the throne of Great Britain. "Corporal Evans I presume?"

"Aye Sir." James quickly filled the Prince in on the situation. They had enemy all around them, firing from high ground in excellent cover. James team was about three hundred metres away, across the open ground, on a small hill, taking cover amongst some larger rocks.

"With respect sir, my boys are in a bad position, so I'm going to ask you and your men to help me put some fire down and draw some of the heat until the cavalry arrives. The three nodded, scavenging the weapons of the fallen combatants. James put them quickly into positions where they would be best suited and put the Prince into the position of most safety. They were to sacrifice all their lives to save his own. Everyone in the Area of Operations knew that.

James coordinated their fire.

He yelled himself keeping the aircrew focussed on fighting like infantrymen. In the background he could hear his own men putting up a hell of a fight from the rocks they had taken cover behind.

"Warby, Giles, Flats. You boys alright?"

"Just fucking Peachy James!"

Fair enough. Just thought he would ask.

It felt like an eternity. It felt like he was feeding thousands of rounds through his rifle instead of hundreds. It felt like the enemy never stopped firing.

It felt like the battle would never end.

He observed movement from a rock pile on a hill overlooking the battlefield. Training his sights upon the mound, he squinted to make out what was going on. His eyes widened.

"RPG!"

He instantly tackled the Prince to the ground as the rocket soared towards them. He shielded the Prince's body with his own as the rocket landed on the wrong side of the aircraft sending an explosion of smoke and dust wafting into the air. James was covered in dust as he pushed himself off the Princes body.

"You alright sir?" He screamed through ringing ears.

"Fantastic Corporal."

He turned to face the hill and saw them preparing more tubes. That was not good. It wouldn't take long to adjust their fire onto his position. When that happened, the crew, including the Prince would be in a serious amount of hurt.

He saw a figure pop its head above the rocks. James sent a few rounds flying his way but it was no good. They were out of effective range for his rifle.

He saw two figures pop up, long black tubes on their shoulders.

"Down" he screamed leaping back onto the Prince and knocking the air out of him.

He waited for his death.

It never came.

Instead he heard a serious of loud and steady thumps.

A 25mm Cannon. The Cavalry.

He heard the rumble of armoured vehicles driving near his team's position.

"I hate to sound clichéd but…"

"You love it Warby, you really do." It was Flats adding to the conversation now.

James had never felt more relieved. He looked up at the rock pile and saw it disintegrating under the cannon fire.

"Oh be damned! We won't be hearing the end of this I'd wager!" Giles's private schoolboy speech spoke into James' earpiece.

"They are fucking Aussies!" The sheer glee in Warby's voices made even James crack a smile. Giles was absolutely correct. They never would hear the end of this. For a British Special Forces patrol to be extracted from a potentially disastrous situation was bad enough. For it to be from an Australian Armoured Column was worse. For one of the soldiers within the Special Forces team to be a transfer from the Australian Army to the British Army meant that this was the kind of story that they would not hear the end of. For a very, very, long time.

In fact. They probably never would hear the end of it.

But to James, in that moment, it did not matter. What mattered was that soon the Prince would be some one else's problem and he could go back to doing what he did best.

"Hold on James, I'm just coordinating with their commander now."

The crew had ceased fire as the armoured vehicles had taken over most of the shooting. James peeped over the helicopter and glanced across the ground. He saw twelve vehicles in a circle around where his team had been hiding. Most had had eight wheels, armour and a machine gun on top to compliment the long barrelled cannon's that adorned the turret. ASLAV's. Australian Light Armoured Vehicles.

A few of the vehicles he noticed were the big boxy troop carriers that Aussies travelled around in. Everyone raved about their anti IED capabilities and zero death count.

He saw two figures conversing on the top of one of the ASLAV's as the rest scanned the country side, using their thermal vision to eradicate the remaining enemy with precision.

"Righto James. So I just talked to the bloke in charge. He is saying that taking his vehicles into the open ground between here and you would be driving into a disaster. He reckons that the hills on each side create an ambush alley. I'm kind of inclined to agree with him."

"As do I. Let me guess, we are coming to you?"

"Looks that way, yeah."

"Great. And the bird? There is still a bloke inside."

"An American UAV has been sent, it's going to blow up the bird. Dunno about the boy."

"Roger. I'll cut him free and we will take him. On our way to you, make sure they cover us Warby, I don't want to get killed in front of a bunch of colonials!"

He heard Warby snort with laughter as he relayed the situation to the crew. They went to work and managed to cut the co-pilot out of his chair. It was unpleasant work as he was almost falling apart. James had to stop himself from throwing up all over the poor man in his seat. He noticed the big burly man shaking as he cut away the straps, James was sympathetic. He had lost men in combat before. He never really did get over it. After five minutes of painstaking work, the body was free. The big burly man placed him over his shoulder as if he was carrying a child. They were finally ready to go.

James gave a quick set of orders and they were off. The first man, the burly man carrying the body, would move first. After twenty metres, the second man would go. The Prince insisted that he go third so that he could see his crew make it to safety before he did. Finally James would bring up the rear.

He radioed across to Warby that they were ready.

"Go."

The first man scooped up the body and he was off. He was a big man but he ran easily. After twenty metres went the second crewman. He passed twenty metres and then it was the princes turn.

Finally, James turned from scanning the horizon, stood and began his run towards the vehicles. It didn't seem as far now that he was running towards a large group of armoured vehicles that would protect him. It didn't seem as far now that his team was out of danger. It didn't seem as far now that bullets were not kicking up all around him.

It didn't seem as far.

A distant crack broke the air.

He saw the Prince fall in front of him as if he had just tripped over.

For the third time in one day, James swore. He picked up his pace as he sprinted towards the downed Prince. He saw the ASLAV barrels in the distance scanning for a target as one of the machine guns opened fire to suppress. The second crewman turned around and saw the prince lying on the ground. He started to run back.

"No!" James screamed to the man! "Keep going! I have him!" He waved frantically at the crewman, who finally turned around and ran towards the vehicles.

James closed the distance quickly and slid next to the Prince.

He was alive at least. James saw that the bullet had hit him in the top of his thigh. Blood was pooling out of the wound. It didn't look arterial. As he inspected the wound, he heard the Prince groan with pain. A round skipped across the ground nearby.

"You'll live sir. We'll dress it in the vehicle."

"Sounds excellent to me, Ev." He spoke through gritted teeth. James grabbed his arm, and pulled him up onto his shoulders before taking off running as fast as his legs could carry him. They say that the modern soldier carries more weight into battle than a medieval knight. In that instance, James could believe that. He had more than 30 kilograms of equipment, plus a rifle with a grenade launcher attached. He wore Kevlar and a helmet. Now he had the Prince, the heir to the throne on his shoulders, who was also wearing Kevlar and a helmet.

James didn't think that he had ever run faster in his life.

He began to close the distance between the man in front and himself. He could feel the rounds bouncing around his legs and skipping past his body. He must have been the luckiest man alive.

Two hundred metres to go.

Every step was one step closer. Every step was one step further.

One hundred and fifty.

Every round that passed by was one more that didn't hit him.

One hundred.

He could see his team now, liasing with the crew to put down effect covering fire for him. The first crewman had bundled into an armoured vehicle, the second was almost there.

At fifty metres. His luck ran out.

He felt like he had been hit in the lower back by a flaming sledgehammer. It knocked him down to one knee and James gasped for breath as the wind was knocked from his body. He felt like part of his lower back was on fire.

He took a few quick breaths and then stood once more. With a long, low grunt. The world went hazy as the pain fully registered. He grit his teeth and became to one more move forward.

He kept running. Each step was agony as his Kevlar rubbed against the wound. The weight pushed his body down upon the body.

Not far now. Not far now. Not far now.

One step.

Two step.

One step.

This time the flaming sledgehammer sent him sprawling into the dirt. He was thirty metres from the vehicles.

He looked down and could see blood pouring down his stomach. His glove came away red. He coughed and blood ran down his chin. He felt for the Prince…

He was still alive.

Just as he was lugging the Prince back up onto his shoulders, he could see Warby sprinting towards him. He took a few steps, feeling like he was going to buckle with each one.

"I've got you mate. I've got you."

Warby wrapped an arm around James's back and helped him along. He spoke in his ear, whispering encouragement.

"It will be okay mate. Just fine. Nearly there. Look at that. So close. You've got this. You do. I'm barely even helping you. You don't need help. Well, except mentally. Always have to save every one, don't you mate? "

James tried to smile, but more blood dripped from his mouth. They were nearly there.

"You're going to go home James. Home! When you get there, you're going to see Pey. Be sure to say hey! Little poem I wrote for her, tell her I said that will you? Let her know that I miss her like crazy. You have to get home for me mate. You have to kiss little Beck on her pretty pink curls and tell her that her daddy misses her. She'd believe that from you. She's believe that from her godfather."

All James could hear was Warby's voice. As the world grew fuzzy around him, a soldier opened the door of an armoured vehicle for him. All he could see was the dark hole where he had to go. The dark blackness that he had to get to. The world was fading around him. He could barely hear Warby anymore. He could just see the whole surrounded by the bright unclear light.

He stopped and his hand hit metal. The weight was lifted from his shoulders.

He just wanted to sit. That's all. It would be really nice if he could just sit down.

He fell down.

That's ok though. That was close enough. That would do perfectly for him. The world was fading all around him.

He could feel arms pulling him. A hand grabbed his.

He could barely see anymore.

Everything was going dark.

As blackness came for him, he heard a voice deep within the recesses of his mind. A voice that came from a memory that he had forgotten. The part of his mind that remained under lock and key, even to him. From his past.

From before.

It was a kindly woman's voice. A gentle voice. A mothers voice.

"Hold on Harry."

"Hold on."


	2. Chapter One

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything but a laptop and dislike of the pairings that ended the Harry Potter series! No offence intended to those who did like them, they just never sat easy with me.  
_

_A/N: Hey guys! Thanks for the response to the prologue! I never actually imagine that people would really be all that keen to read this story, but I thought I would post it because there is no better way to learn what other people think about your writing. So if you want to leave a review, go ahead, if you don't that's cool too. Feel free to let me know about any mistakes I made, I don't have a beta and suck at editing my own stuff, so I'm trying to catch the mistakes and awkward phrasings that I leave, but I'm never going to catch them all. _

_I hope you enjoy this story, just a few notes that might help people out. This story is set so that the battle of hogwarts, which happened ins eventh year, occured in 2005. This makes the story set in about 2012. _

_Also! Sorry for the exposition in this chapter, I hope it's not too much, I just needed to introduce Hermione._

_Enjoy!_

The moment she opened the door to the nice homely townhouse she kept in muggle London she saw him. It was the same every day. Hermione would open the door, fresh from her morning run, craving nothing more than a shower and a hot mug of the strongest black coffee known to man and be greeted with her cat sitting on the table. Staring

"Yes, yes Crookshank, I know." It was her routine these days. Every morning she would have to feed her cat before she could do anything else. No shower, coffee or breakfast for her. Crookshank, the king of the household must come first.

Not that she minded terribly. Most days she felt bad leaving him at home as she attended the long shifts that came with her duties at work. In between her shifts at the muggle hospital and at St Mungo's, she really did not have many days off and she was thankful that today was one of those precious few that she could take the time to enjoy. A day where she could just sit back, relax and take care of the mountain of paperwork that seemed to accrue whenever she was placed in charge of people.

She placed the empty tin into the bin and began to wash her hands as her ginger cat leapt down from the table and began to lap up the food placed in front of him. Hermione gave him an affectionate nudge with her foot as she ascended the stairs to have a much needed shower.

At least when he was eating, he wasn't judging her. Crookshank, the part-kneazle cat had a tendency to judge her every second of the day when she was home. He was a cat that seemed to know exactly what was going on with her at every moment of the day. Hermione would come home and he would demand to be fed, afterwards he would promptly stare at her as if to ask why she, a young woman of 25 was still as yet single.

To answer that question required Hermione to dig into a past that she was reluctant to go into these days. It was a past that panged in her heart every time she caught herself staring at one of the many photographs around her place with him in it. He was the lightning bolt shaped scar on her heart that neither time nor busy hands had done as much as dull.

He was dead.

They all accepted that.

They had to.

She hated that. They had never even found his body.

She had been allowed to keep his wand. She kept it mounted in her study, mounted above the desk she used for all her study. It reminded her, those few times when doubt flagged her mind about what she was doing, as to the why's that she was. Those painful what if's that plagued her mind. What if she had known some extra bit of information that could have helped? What if she had known how to help him? What if she had just been there?

The time that passed provided maddeningly few answers, just the long silence and dull ache in what was left of the pieces of her heart. She didn't cry as much these days, only on his birthday, the anniversary of his death. That day she locked herself in and dealt with the previous years' worth of angst and anguish. She told herself that these moments would recharge her and get her ready for a fresh year. That the year following she would find someone worthy to keep her company in the meantime.

But she never did. She had tried dating once or twice, but they never matched up. She always found herself comparing them to her departed best friend. They never met his standard. They never had the same connection.

Hermione towelled herself off and dressed for the day. She chose a simple pair of old jeans and an old polo shirt she kept around for some old reason that she could no longer remember. She didn't bother with make-up, and seldom did her hair into much more than a bun. She failed to see any point in bothering with any of that stuff anymore. The only other being in her house would stare at her all day whether she wore make-up or dance around naked with a pumpkin on her head.

Perhaps it was these thoughts that distracted her from the fact that Crookshank was not in the kitchen when she walked in, nor was he starting at her. She paid it very little mind and enjoyed the lack of judgement as she went into the fridge to fix herself something to eat. Porridge was always a good option after a run she found. Something too heavy and she would feel sluggish for the rest of the day. She put the kettle on and relaxed into a chair eyeing off the two newspapers that sat on the table. Muggle or Wizard. What did she feel more like today?

She picked up the Daily Prophet and unfolded it with a sigh. Wizard. Some days you just can't fight the pull of the magic back into the world she half lived in. She began to read the days headline, 'Ministy still Searching for Missing Door' when the kettle whistled, sending her shooting from her chair.

She gave a quiet laugh at her start and reassuring touched her wand that was holstered to her lower back. An idea of Fred and George's actually, that they reasoned that most people's hands were bound behind their back, therefore placing a holster there was a fantastic idea, one that Hermione was enthusiastic about as it put the thing out of her mind and she could forget about it if she just needed to be a muggle for a while.

She poured herself the hot water into her favourite mug, one that changed to map the sky outside. Today a nice light blue without a cloud in the sky, which made it look like that damned heat wave would not be breaking today.

She turned about and sat back down-

-To find herself with the front page of The Telegraph staring up at her.

Crookshanks was seated on the table, right behind the newspaper, resting one paw lightly upon the headline. Thus the caper of the changing newspaper was solved.

"The Telegraph?"

Crookshank stared at her, less judgement and more expectation.

Hermione stared right back at him.

She was having a starting competition. With her cat.

Indeed.

"I think I will read the Prophet today Crookshanks my love." She said, and began shifting the paper to one side.

Crookshank meowed at her, loudly, indignantly. He pulled the newspaper back in front of her. Hermione sighed. She could be stubborn when she wanted to be. When she was having difficulty with a problem, or when she knew she was right. Somehow, she didn't have the strength today.

Crookshanks meowed again. A long meow of expectation.

Yes. Hermione was at that stage where she could understand exactly what her cat wanted to do from his meows. She really needed a man about the house.

"Alright then. I'll read the bloody Telegraph." She grumbled as she took a sip out of her sky blue mug.

She looked at the headline.

"British Soldier Awarded Victoria Cross for efforts for the Crown."

Below it was a picture of the more prominent members of the Royal Family standing next to a soldier. His face was blurred out in the photograph.

"You wanted me to see this then cat?"

Yes human, her cat seemed to say in its stare.

As she began to read the article, Crookshank leap from the table, landing easily on his feet and ran victoriously from her kitchen and into her living room.

_A British Soldier was awarded the country's highest medal of bravery today in a small and private ceremony at Buckingham Palace, in honour of his achievements in rescuing the second heir to the throne, The Prince, the Duke of Cambridge in Afghanistan in June. The soldier, who chose not be identified due to his position within the countries Special Forces community is said to have risked his life in a daring move to save the Duke of Cambridge and his flight crew after their Helicopter was shot down._

_The soldier, already well known within the military community for his bravery and meritorious service adds the medal to an already distinguished career. He has been previously awarded the Military Cross and has been mentioned in dispatches several times._

_Corporal J. ran across more than 300m of open ground, under intense enemy fire, where he dispatched several enemy combatants who were attempting to capture the flight crew at great personal risk to his safety. He then organised his men and the flight crew to cause effective fire upon the enemy until relief arrived. Upon its arrival, when the field was thought cleared, Corporal J. waited until all others were clear, including the slain co-pilot, one Lieutenant Geoffrey Ingham, before making his way towards safety himself. The Duke of Cambridge was wounded, wherein Corporal J. did not hesitate to pick him up and carry him to safety. During this carriage, Corporal J. was himself wounded by small arms fire no less than three times. Shrugging off this life threatening wounds, he managed to carry the Duke of Cambridge to safety, before allowing himself to be treated._

_When interviewed, the Duke of Cambridge stated that Corporal J. 'Demonstrated the utmost commitment to the cause, not just for myself, but for every man on the field. He put himself last and led by example. I have given him my personal thanks, for I, and my crew, would have certainly been captured or killed if it wasn't for his selfless actions. I hold J. in my highest esteem for he emboldens the highest ideals of the military and nation that he serves._

_Corporal J. a man of noticeably few words merely stated that 'Anyone would have done it really. I didn't do anything special. I saw people in need and I went to help them. I just happen to be quicker at getting up than my teammates, I guess.'_

_When asked about his recovery, 'It's a slow process. I don't even remember receiving the third wound. I just want to get back out there with my mates. Yeah, they say I could have died, but then, so could every soldier at any moment over there.'_

_For more reports, see our website._

For some reason, the article made Hermione sad. It was something that Harry would have done. The amount of times she had seen him run into danger to rescue a friend, or anyone really, was beyond her count. He was the kind of man that was reluctant to lead people into danger, especially if he could do it himself, but he would always lead them out. She thought of the potential he had, and the life he could have led. He could have found peace.

Her thoughts were cut short by the television blinking to life in her living room. In a flash she was up out of her chair, knocking her coffee over, wand in hand. She wordlessly cleaned up her mess and moved silently to the wall by the passage into the next room.

She took a breath.

She took another.

She imagined Death Eaters in the next room, waiting to blast her into oblivion.

She took one last breath and threw herself into her living room-

-to find Crookshank sitting on the lounge, his paws resting on the remote control.

"You will be my end Cat, I swear it!" she growled, as frustrated at the cat as she was at her own jumpiness.

Crookshank merely stared at her.

Then he looked at the television.

Hermione must be going insane. Crookshank was watching Television!

He meowed at her. She moved over to the lounge and reach for the remote.

Crookshank hissed at her nearing hand. She drew back, startled. Crookshank had never hissed at her before. Never. He had hissed at just about everyone else, but never her. Crookshank looked lazily over at the television.

Hermione followed his gaze.

It was one of those morning Television shows that played some semblance of the news. The two anchors were chatting excitedly to a man in full military regalia. She failed to see the significance.

Wait.

What?

It was the Prince of Wales. Hermione sat down next to Crookshank. He was really interested in this show. She turned the volume up a little, without causing him to hiss.

"-simply best of friends. It is thanks to him afterall that I managed to come home to see my wonderful wife and family. It is the same thing that every soldier wants I'm sure."

The anchors nodded along eagerly, glancing at the camera every now and then to flash a smile. It was one of _those_ shows. As a rule, Hermione hated those shows.

It was the woman who spoke next.

"Now obviously, there is a lot of secrecy surrounding this young man, due to his service. But I must admit, I am simply fascinated by what he has done! What can you tell us about him?"

The prince laughed good naturedly along with the question.

"Well, I'm afraid we can't say much. He chose to keep his identity secret-"

"But he is a hero! Who wouldn't want the recognition and fame that comes with being a national hero!"

Hermione could think of someone, an old friend who no longer walked this earth. He was a man who wanted nothing more than to do his duty and go home. Hermione could respect this man's choice.

"But I will let you know a few little secrets that I'm sure he would not mind if they came out! He is without a doubt, one of the strongest men I have ever had the privilege of knowing."

The male presenter cut in here, as they liked to do.

"Well he did carry you across the field with what was it, two bullets in him?"

"Three. He was shot three times. All three were life threatening on their own. Yet he pulled through. The doctors believe he will be back to fighting fit early next year. He joked to me that it was just a few more scars to add to the collection!"

Hermione breathed a heavy breath. She felt tears well in her eyes. She knew a man with a very prominent scar. Once.

The woman with her too big smile and her long too fake blonde hair cut in.

"But what about the man himself? Is he single?"

The Prince laughed a hearty laugh, but Hermione could see little mirth in it. Even if you were the heir to the throne, when a man saved your life, you had a bond with him.

"Why yes he certainly is. Not much family at all, the poor man. But he has plenty of brothers, his comrades-in- arms and their families were oft around."

Harry never had much family either. Just the family he made around himself.

The lady turned towards the camera and gave a big toothy grin. "Do you hear that ladies? Brave, gallant and single! I can't imagine a more magical combination!"

The tears began to fall in earnest now. Why did she have to be reminded of him everywhere she looked.

"The question is, which one of you will he save?"

Hermione's whole world froze. She no longer heard the stupid interviewer's inane questions, nor the Prince's carefully measured responses. Her mind was a blaze with questions and possibilities.

Surely not.

Absolutely not.

Definitely not.

Maybe.

What if?

Hermione tried desperately not to get her hopes up.

Her mind raced over the possibilities. They had never found a body. He could still be alive. What if he had survived? No. He was dead. Harry Potter was dead! She had checked! She had called every emergency room for miles around where Harry had gone missing. She had driven herself mad thinking that they would have picked him up. He would have just been another John Doe to them. Another nameless injury that came through the hospital doors, taking up a bed in an already overflowing space.

But what if he had touched a portkey? Or what if the battle didn't take place there? What if? What if? What if?

Her mind reeled with possibility, with hope. For the first time in seven years, Hermione Granger felt real, genuine fire in her belly. She felt that drive to grab something with two hands and never let go. She had to seek this man out. She had to.

She looked down at Crookshank who had cocked his head at her.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" He seemed to say.

Hermione leapt from her chair and bolted for the kitchen. She looked at the picture in the paper, of the Queen smiling her stern smile, the Duke of Cambridge with his big toothy grin and his beautiful wife, but most importantly with this mysterious soldier.

She paused, preparing herself for the second biggest disappointment of her life. She braced for a day of intermittent crying and staring at the moving photographs that was all she had left. She prepared herself.

She closed her eyes.

And she cast.

She squeezed her eyes shut for what felt like an age. She did not want to open them again, scared to see the truth. Her mind raced, as it was prone to do, to all the faces she could see and all the possibilities that could occur when she opened her eyes.

With agonising slowness she opened her eyes.

And there he was.

There was no mistaking that lightning bolt scar upon his forehead. Those bottle green eyes. There was no mistaking that half smile he had. There was absolutely no mistaking that it was Harry James Potter.

And he was not dead.

Hermione did not know for just how long she sat in her kitchen and stared at the photograph that headlined the paper. She did not know for how long the tears rolled down her face or how long the heaving sobs wracked her body.

She did know that she had a pounding headache and eyes so sore that she no longer dared to rub them. She felt like she had felt the previous seven years' worth of grief and hope flow through her body, as if she was reliving those long, painful years all over again. It was almost like a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders, before she was promptly run over by the rampant Knight Bus.

Her mind raced through every possibility, from the highly doubtful to the highly fanciful. Everything from clones, to look alike's sprang through her mind, yet they all refused to click. For here, sitting in front of her on her own kitchen table was undeniable evidence that Harry Potter had become once again, the boy-who-lived.

Or rather, the man-who-lived. Studying the photograph in front of her, it was obvious that he was no longer a boy any more than he was dead. He had the same raven hair, tucked under a sandy brown beret. He did not wear glasses in the photograph, but Hermione paid that no mind, he could be wearing contacts after all. His shoulders were broad under his khaki green woollen uniform. His chest was beset with colour of all the medals and honours that adorned his chest. He seemed a bit taller then she remembered, but that could have just been the photograph.

Once again, she felt the curiosity enter her mind. How?

So Hermione did what she always did in situations like that, she went to the library. In this particular case however, the library was a room adjacent to her living room. It doubled as her study, with books piled high from floor to ceiling, all neatly organised into row upon row. It was not her beloved books that she approached though, it was her desk. She pushed the small mountain or paperwork that adorned her desk aside more roughly then was becoming for her. She had larger priorities right now then a few signatures here and there. She had some research that could not wait, for it already had the preceding seven years.

She reached for her small travel smart laptop. She had purchased it to take with her, to and from University. She had actually wanted a bigger laptop, but the constantly shrinking and enlarging of it would have grown suspicious to fellow students at school, not to mention too much magic could short circuit the wiring.

She opened that laptop and went to work.

Hermione liked to start broad and work her way down, it was how she had approached all problems that she had encountered since she was solving school problems in her pajamas with her two best friends. Start broad.

She began her research with the British Army.

Every muggle in the United Kingdom knew what a sandy coloured Beret meant. It belonged to the highly secretive and highly regarded Special Air Service or SAS. Hermione knew that would be her first problem. There was no way that she; even with her talents in both the magical and medicinal fields could trick anyone into giving her access to the soldier's personal files. It just wasn't going to happen. These were the kind of people that kept secrets within secrets; in fact, Hermione figured she would be better of going to ask the Unspeakables about their jobs.

She began to work her way down, reading about operational deployments that the unit had been on throughout the years. She even ordered a few books, as was her way, in that she could learn more about these secretive men. She would have to figure out a way to get access to Harry, and that was going to be difficult.

Unless, that is, she could figure out a way to draw him to her.

Hermione chewed her bottom lip as the magnitude of the problem worked its way around her head. She mulled it over, examining it this way and that, from all angles in all light and came up with very little. Eventually, with a growl of frustration, she put that problem aside.

There was something that had occurred to her. It was so much of a long shot that it had never properly registered within her mind before.

Through her work at the muggle hospital and within university, Hermione had gotten access to several databases of medical journals that were written by medical practitioners' the world over. Surely if Harry had survived, he would have needed some form of medical attention. There was no way he could have walked away unscathed, without any form of damage. He had been the greatest wizard she had ever known, but even he was not infallible.

It was with tentative, trembling fingers that she opened the database and began to type.

Most of the former headmasters of Hogwarts were sleeping soundly within their portraits when Hermione made her entrance into the headmistress's office. It was not the first time she had ever muttered 'Hershey's Kiss' to the loudmouthed gargoyle and hurried up the spiral staircase to the office.

As Dumbledore had been a figure of good that Harry could look up to, Minerva could be for Hermione. Often when times were particularly difficult, or she just needed someone to talk to (about serious matters of course) she would turn to Minerva. There was a reason Minerva had become the headmistresses of Hogwarts after Dumbledore was killed, she was the right person for the job. Firm but fair, a beacon of hope amongst the waves, McGonagall had held the castle together through the worst parts of the war, protecting the students and leading the defences. It was something that Dumbledore would have done. The castle had needed a head, and Minerva had fulfilled that role admirably.

She was also, unfortunately late. Hermione gently sat down in one of the comfortable leather seats that faced the headmistresses table and gently picked at the corners of the papers that she held in front of her.

It had taken almost two hours to find the journal she was looking for. It told a story that was too insane to be anybody else. Harry Potter's life had been one crazy story after another, it would seem that the not quite death of Harry had been the same. It was almost too ridiculous to believe.

"Sorry to keep you waiting Miss Granger, young wizards and witches keep these hands busy." Came a voice that made her leap in her seat.

"It's no problem Professor, I haven't been here long." Hermione kept her tone balanced and neutral. She didn't need McGonagall to go thinking that she was an emotional wreck and only finding things her mind was searching for. She needed belief, understanding and a plan.

Professor McGonagall, placed her hat on a stand by her desk and moved around to give Hermione a light, almost maternal embrace.

"How are you my dear?" It was one thing to practice your 'I'm ok' face in the mirror, it was another thing entirely to present that face to a woman who had been your mentor for a large part of your formative years.

"I'm good Professor, and how are you?" She hoped her voice was even, but even she couldn't hide behind the little quake when she said 'good'.

McGonagall fixed her a long stare before moving to sit down behind her desk. She had either not heard the quake, or was pretending not to hear it.

"How many times must I tell you to call me Minerva, Miss Granger?"

"At least once more Professor. I promise to start when you remember to call me Hermione."

It was a joke they shared often, the lines were well rehearsed. Minerva gave her a small smile; it was the closest thing to a laugh that Hermione ever got out of her.

Professor McGonagall fixed a pot of tea, from a sky blue pot that looked like it had been made by a small child. She gave another small smile and Hermione's quizzical look.

"A small gift from an old friend." She answered the unasked question as she poured a cup for Hermione and then herself.

"Hagrid."

"Ah."

Hermione did not know what else to say, so she took a sip of tea. She tried to avoid the scrutinizing stare of her former teacher as she did so, preferring instead to look at the snoozing headmasters and headmistresses around the room. She saw that Professor Dumbledore was awake. He winked at her and gave her a little wave, and Hermione could not help but smile as a painted Fawkes came to land on his shoulder.

Dumbledore, majestic and awe inspiring, even in death.

"So what brings one of my brightest former pupils to my office in such a state and in such a hurry? You said it was of some great importance." Minerva did not have a reputation for beating around the bush, nor did she have the time to do the same.

Hermione intently at her tea as she thought about what to say. She had been in such a rush to show someone, anyone. Well not anyone, just Professor McGonagall, who would not tell her that she was crazy, or sigh when she brought him up again.

"Miss Granger?" it was a gentle question to break her reverie, not unkind.

"Its-Well, you see- It's- Harry."

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow at her, but Hermione could see the sadness that hid behind her eyes. Harry's death had affected a lot of people in different ways. Hermione could see painted Fawkes weeping painted tears in the background.

"Professor. He's alive."

The silence that hung in the air seemed to stretch on for a lifetime. Professor McGonagall stared at Hermione, both of her eyebrows having shot up. She noted that a few of the sleeping portraits now had one eye open, staring at her, having forgotten to pretend to be asleep. Behind Professor McGonagall, she saw that Professor Dumbledore had leaned forward in his portrait and brought his hands together, watching her with the vague interest that someone might watch a creature they were seeing that they had only previously seen photographs of.

Finally, Hermione broke the silence again.

"Look."

She placed the rolled up Telegraph on the headmistress's desk and pointed at the headline, complete with photograph.

That nasty silence once more hung in the air as Professor McGonagall stared at the photograph that had been placed before her. She could have sworn she saw a tear well up in the headmistress's eye, but only for an instant, before thinking that she must have been mistaken.

Professor McGonagalls eyes stared at the photograph, before darting back and forth, reading the article that accompanied the picture.

After the longest time, she sighed, before leaning back into her chair and reaching into a drawer that sat under her left elbow. She produced a pitcher of amber fluid and two glasses, before pouring a measure of drink into each glass and floating it over to Hermione.

Hermione took a sip, nearly choking as the spirit went down her throat. She did her best to stop the flush of colour to her cheeks.

"Glacier Brandy."

"Ah."

Silence.

Frustrating, stupid, annoying silence.

Once again.

Silence.

With nothing to do but busy herself or go mad waiting, Hermione took another sip of the brandy she held in her hand, wishing she had her tea back, or better, a stiff coffee.

"He is alive." Professor McGonagall finally spoke.

Hermione nodded.

Suddenly a smile broke over Professor McGonagall's face, and a twinkle came into Professor Dumbledore's eyes.

Quickly, Hermione explained what she had seen on television and then how she had undone the obscuring in the photograph out of curiosity. She neglected to mention that her cat had seemed to know about it all before she did, there was no reason to let the headmistress know that Hermione was slowly losing her brilliant mind!

When she started speaking, she found she couldn't stop. She explained how she researched the Army unit that Harry was a part of, and the difficulty she would face trying to get any information from them.

It was then that she got up to her next part, the part that was purely speculation on her part. The part that she hoped against hope itself was the truth.

She handed over a folder.

"This medical file contains a single case study. It has been largely panned within the greater medical community for one primary reason. The only thing that any doctor can come up with is to the reason the patient survived."

She took a long sip of the fluid that she held within her trembling hands.

"Magic."

Professor McGonagall gave Hermione that small smile once again.

"You truly are a brilliant witch Hermione. But why would Harry be alive and have not come back to us?"

"If you have time, read the journal. It's long and has a lot of medical jargon scattered throughout, but the gist of the matter is that when he woke up, Harry had absolutely no memory. He could not recount what had happened to him, he didn't even remember his name. He was a blank canvas. It doesn't surprise me that he enlisted within the military; he would not have had a world full of options."

Professor McGonagall had that sadness behind her eyes once more.

"He never had had an easy run, has he?"

Hermione just shook her head, taking another sip of the brandy. She didn't know what exactly what to say, or for that matter, if she could keep her voice from breaking long enough to say it.

"Who knows about this?"

"No one Professor, just you and Professor Dumbledore." She felt like a student again, in trouble with the headmaster and head of house, only this time, she did not have the luxury of friends by her side.

It was Professor Dumbledore who spoke next, the glimmer in his eye evident from her seat.

"It would seem, Minerva, that Miss Granger has fully accepted the somewhat delicate nature of Harry's position, and the discretion that would be advised in assisting him."

Minerva looked somewhat thoughtful, until Dumbledore spoke again.

"Imagine the chaos of a horde of Witches and Wizards running of half-cocked to rescue someone who isn't likely to be aware that he needs rescue! These are not the kinds of men to be easily taken care of; I believe it would only end in disaster. If however, we could send someone who knew what it was like to be a muggle to infiltrate the community…"

Hermione cottoned on immediately to what Dumbledore was saying.

"I could transfer hospitals. Lord knows that boy can't keep out of hospital for longer than two weeks without breaking something. Maybe I could find a way to do some study and figure out a way to restore his memory and bring him home."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"A simply excellent idea Miss Granger, if you were still in Hogwarts, I would award you 100 points for Gryffindor!"

Hermione couldn't help but blush at that, some things never changed.

"Minerva, with my pensieve you will find several bottles of Lucidious that I brewed, would you be a dear and fetch them for Miss Granger? I believe she may find them somewhat useful in the days ahead."

As Minerva left the room to find the potion in question, Dumbledore spoke.

"Hermione, if you will allow me the use of your name, I'm afraid there is something that few would give worry about in this type of situation."

Hermione didn't follow where the conversation was going, but she would never forget the warning that came next.

"No matter what you do Hermione, you must remember, seven years have passed since he lost his memory. A lot will have happened. He built his life within the wizarding world within a similar time period. He may have built a life that he is comfortable in, a life that is his own. No matter if you can restore his memory, if you can help him regather his rightful place within this world.

He may not wish to come back."


End file.
